Having inherited such peculiar eyes,
With three retinal cones, and not four—
Enough to see a pinch of color
From red to violet, but no more.
As if I’d never need to fly above or burrow below
The lighting of this world.

Having inherited such a peculiar tongue,
Mostly developed in another place for other times—
Enough to point to plants and ask, “What is this?”
But not to point to my chest and ask, “What am I?”
As if I am the same way a plant is,
And no more, no less, no different.

Such peculiar inheritance
That possesses us
Before we possess any
Thing.